7. The Horny House

Juliet

The stars flicker brightly in the beautiful night sky, visible through the kitchen window as I scrub the last bowl to a shine. Nope. There's a remnant of dinner still on it. I attack the risotto speck, and then, victorious at last, I set it on the drying rack.

"That's done." I hang up the towel next to a white wooden cupboard. "Is the kitchen the only room in The Horny House that doesn't feel like a retro brothel?"

Monroe is sorting the takeout containers into compostable and recyclable.

"That's your name for it?" he asks as he folds up the paper bag.

He seems ultra-focused too. The dinner he brought back—a mouthwatering asparagus risotto and a delish arugula salad for this vegetarian, and chickpea cakes and seared salmon for him—took care of the hangry in both of us. While we ate, we tackled his preliminary notes from earlier, and he mentioned that he ran into his dad. He didn't share details, but I figured that was why he needed to zero in on tasks.

By the time we'd finished eating, we had the start of a plan for the house and a list of everything we needed to accomplish. I contacted a realtor who we'll meet with at the end of the week. While we're here, we'll paint some of the rooms, and there's so much sorting to do. Monroe was out hunting and gathering when I found another room at the end of the hallway, sort of a small storage room full of mirrors—mirrors with scalloped edges, with gilt frames, with exposed light bulbs.

I sweep a hand toward the rest of the home. "I'm honestly surprised there's not a stripper pole somewhere in here."

He smiles at that and drops the cardboard into the blue plastic bin. "Me too. I figured there'd be one on the garden level for sure."

"Just a few tables and a wet bar for your average Darling Springs underground poker game," I say, amused with the decor, then I shake my head, chuckling softly. "But good for her. Eleanor seems like—well, if the house is any indication—like someone who enjoys life. The gifting fits too. I think generous people are often the happiest."

Monroe cocks his head like he's considering that. "You're probably right. And she definitely seemed to be enjoying her new tennis instructor whenever she called about him."

"Definitely." I smile as I think of our favorite fan. It's easier than thinking of the long text exchange I had with my mother while Monroe was out. But I can't keep putting off the topic, especially since Mom's partly why I've been winding myself up with worry.

"Hey," I say, in a vulnerable tone, opening up.

"Yeah?" he asks, leaning against the counter.

"My mom's coming to town tomorrow." She only lives twenty minutes away, so it's an easy drive. As soon as I mentioned I'd be nearby, she jumped at the opportunity to get together, which concerns me a little.

"Oh." He scratches his jaw. "That's good?"

I nod a few times, nerves winging through me. "I hope so. I'm worried about her. We're having breakfast in the morning at the café at The Ladybug Inn."

"I know that place. Good pancakes, but why are you worried?"

That's a good question, which I've been chewing on, not for a few hours, but a few months. "Their divorce was only final two months ago. I had to travel a lot for business, so I haven't seen Mom since they split. We've talked plenty, but I should have seen her sooner. Same with my dad, but he always seemed so steady, so certain. I'm more scared of how she's doing." It's a relief to give voice to that fear.

"That's understandable, especially when we think we might have to take care of our parents in some way."

I knew he was the right person to share with, that he'd get it immediately. "She was always so secure. So even-keeled. I'm genuinely nervous about the effect that divorce might be having on her."

"Your dad was always her rock of support, right?"

"Yes. I just hope she's doing okay. There wasn't even a big reason for the split, you know? They both said, repeatedly, it was amicable. They realized they just weren't right for each other." I'm still a little shocked when I repeat those words. "I mean, how does that happen? After thirty-five years?"

He's quiet for a moment. "Maybe that's why you didn't see her for a few months. Maybe you weren't ready." This side of him calms me at times, soothes me when I need it. He's masterful at getting under my skin, but he's also surprisingly good at saying the right thing.

Well, I suppose it's not surprising. It's literally his job. But I haven't told him the kicker.

"She said she had some things to talk to me about," I blurt out, twisting my fingers.

He tenses, eyes flickering with concern that he quickly seems to let go of, maybe for my sake. "Is she okay?"

"She assured me it was a—quote—good thing." I sketch air quotes as I imitate her. "But I'm still nervous." I lock gazes with the man I'm sharing a bunk bed with tonight, and his eyes are kind and caring. I'll need that tomorrow. "Would you come with me?"

His smile is as instant as his answer. "I will."

"Thanks. I'll text her and let her know. She'll be excited," I say, then I yawn. "I should get ready for bed. I'll see you in the bunk."

Hmm. I realize quickly that I didn't think this through. The whole bra-free lifestyle I practice at night, I mean. And really, what woman doesn't go braless as often as she possibly can?

I frown at my softly lit reflection in the bathroom mirror, plucking at the loose neckline of my sleep T-shirt. Yes, it goes down to my thighs. Yes, I'm wearing sleep shorts.

But…

The girls are jiggling and wiggling around.

They're not huge, though they aren't small either. Am I going to just sashay out that door, say sleep tight, then slide into bed all free-range?

It's not anything he hasn't seen before, one voice says.

I know, but we don't talk about that, the other voice whispers.

He knows you have boobs, the first voice says.

I roll my eyes at my reflection. Whatever. It's fine. We're not technically sleeping in the same bed, anyway.

I yank open the door of the en suite bathroom walking into the bedroom, then I have to grab onto the freaking wall.

Because…gray sweatpants, so help me god.

Monroe's bent over his suitcase, riffling around for something. He's wearing a T-shirt from his alma mater and sweats that make me sweat.

Dressed in a T-shirt, all his ink is visible. A half sleeve covers his left forearm, with a sturdy tree in the center. Maybe it's a maple tree? It's surrounded by flowers, a rich red rose, a deep sapphire dahlia, a tiny white calla lily. Sunbursts hug the flowers, coasting down his fair skin, and they're such a contrast to his by-the-book personality. It's rare to find a doctor with visible ink. I've certainly never had one. I associate tattoos more with artists, athletes, and bartenders, not with someone who's guarded, who keeps his emotions close to the vest.

It's not the first time I've seen Monroe's ink, of course. But it makes my pulse speed up just the same.

I swallow once. Then again as he stands, a blue shirt in his right hand. "Just making sure I had something nice to wear when we see your mom," he says.

The man plans for everything. My planner heart is doing a jig. "That's a nice shirt," I say, and I offer a smile that I hope is friendly. A nice friendly reminder that we're friends and colleagues. That I'm his friend's sister. That his sexy ink and low-slung sweats aren't affecting me.

Just like my shirt probably isn't affecting him.

Except when his eyes take a quick tour of my attire, stopping, no, lingering on my chest, I'm pretty sure my shirt is doing something.

But then he shakes his head and mutters, "excuse me" before he heads off to the bathroom.

That wasn't too awkward. I get into the bottom bunk, then stare up at my reflection.

This is an odd view. You don't normally look at yourself in this pose. My hair's fanned out on the pillow. My boobs are flattened now. Is this how I'd look if he fucked me in this bed? And do I really want this view?

Or maybe, the first voice says, he'd want you on top so he could watch you.

The second voice chides the first one with a stop, just stop.

"You weirdo," I say, then I grab my phone and click open my book, a workplace memoir about human-centered design that's really about how to be a better, kinder human. Perfect reading for tonight. I should aspire to be my best self here with Monroe, with my mom tomorrow. In general.

And a better human won't linger too long on gray sweats, sexy ink, or mirrored beds.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open, and Monroe returns to the bed, appraising it once more, shaking his head in amusement. "All right. Let's see what the bunk bed hype is about," he says, then heads to the foot of the bed and climbs the wooden ladder, giving me a perfect view of his gray sweats as he ascends.

He stops, though, before he reaches the top, his calves in my line of view. How are they toned even through his sweatpants?

"Why are you a weirdo?" he asks.

I groan privately. "You heard that?"

"Well, you said it out loud. I was curious."

Of course he was. And really, I don't need to hide the truth. Just to obfuscate it a tidge. "It's just that mirrors on the ceiling are weird. I'm not sure I want to look at myself as I'm reading in bed."

He laughs softly. "Pretty sure they're not for reading, Juliet."

I groan out loud this time. "Yes, I know."

Then he climbs up the rest of the way and out of view, settling into the big bunk bed above me.

He's sliding under the covers, then patting the pillow from the sound of it. He lets out a long sigh, then says, "Yeah, it's a little weird to look at yourself."

"Ha. See? I'm right."

There's a pause and I have no idea if the conversation is over. But a few seconds later, he says, "But I suppose if I was in here with someone else, that's not who I'd be looking at. Goodnight, Juliet."

My skin is hot as I manage a goodnight.